


In The Drink

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Tarkelian vodka - the greatest truth serum in the galaxy





	1. In The Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Not mine (unfortunately) and unbeta'd.  
>  Set in the latter part of Season 2. Spoilers: 1.16 “Shuttlepod One”; 1.18 “Rogue Planet”; 1.24 “Desert Crossing”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shore leave with friends. What can possibly embarrass Trip Tucker?

The strobe lights that pulse through the nightclub's gloomy interior are making my stomach churn, and just for once I'm pretty sure this dull thump in my temples isn't some kind of drunken warning of a God-awful hangover. I mean, the booze they serve in this poky, humid, overcrowded joint Johnny's dragged us into is, in my informed opinion, alligator piss mixed with stale vinegar.

None of the others seem to agree with me. That must be the eighth jug of the night that's empty on the table, and I'm stone-cold sober. Travis? Fraternising with the locals last time he came into scanner range, which leaves Johnny, Hosh and Malcolm - who I last saw heading off for a refill five minutes ago - responsible for running up the biggest bar tab of the mission so far.

And here comes my favourite armoury officer, weaving his way through the crowd with another big jug clutched to his chest like it's his best phase pistol. Funny how I just have to think of him and he appears. Kind of a good habit, since I find myself thinking of him a lot.

"Tarkelian vodka!" he announces as he slaps his trophy onto the table, lips pupping up in disapproval at a few drops that splash out over the rim. Well, if he hadn't filled it right up over the spout, he might not have wasted them.

He might not have all the same, because the way Johnny's ogling the table I figure he's going to start licking up the residue any minute. Last time I saw him this drunk was the night of that infamous poker game on Jupiter Station. To spare him any blushes in the morning, I stretch over and refill the glasses, senior officer present's first.

Usually Mal would approve of that, but he's scared of missing out. I'm getting the drowned puppy look, and oh shit, if it don't just melt my foolish heart. He's the cutest drunk ever, and who'd have thought that about Lieutenant Uptight?

It's okay, Malcolm, I haven't forgotten you. As an apology, I deliberately drop the stupid little red paper umbrella into his glass when I brim it. I'm rewarded with a great big dopey grin that reduces my belly to the same state of mush as my heart.

"Aaah, thanks Commander!"

I don't even have to say it; I just give him a look, and he actually giggles. "Sorry, Commander Trip, sir," he announces, lurching toward his seat at the kind of crazy angle I last saw on a picture of that weirdo bell tower someplace in Italy. Honestly, I'd put out an arm to guide anyone in that state down safe. It's got nothing to do with wrapping my fingers around that exposed, beautifully firm bicep.

Maybe I'd let go of Travis or Jon quicker, but hey: you can't blame a guy for taking his rare chances, and he looks so good tonight. It's a damn shame he's so attached to his uniform, because nobody in Starfleet wears his civvies better than Malcolm.

I'm not sure if those black jeans are just the tightest I've ever seen, or if he's actually spray-painted his legs; the black t-shirt, damp with sweat, clings to every line of his gorgeously sculpted chest, and his hair's as mussed as if he'd just crawled out of bed, spikes standing up from his crown and a few soft strands dripping forward into his eyes. He keeps trying to push them away, but he's a little too drunk to aim right. Did I pack Phlox's patented hangover tablets? I'm okay, but my room-mate's going to need them in the morning.

Did I mention I'm going to have to murder Hoshi?

Okay, she wasn't to know the Tessians automatically assumed the female making room reservations must be the chief spouse of the dominant male and reserved one suite less than we asked for. I could've kept my big mouth shut and waited for Mal to volunteer to share with Travis, but no: I had to jump in and say, all loud and happy, that I'd share with Lt Reed and spare the Captain's dignity.

Ulterior motive? You bet your ass!

Damn, he's adorable like this!

Jon's complaining; apparently the animal piss he's knocking back like the best Kentucky bourbon don't taste like vodka at all. Malcolm snorts.

"Take it up with the UT, Captain," he pouts, stretching over us to tuck the stupid yellow cocktail umbrella that's hanging over the empty jug spout in behind Hoshi's ear. She'd be unhappy, if she was conscious. 

After all, she's responsible for the damn machine. If it don't know what vodka tastes like, it's her fault. 

Jon snickers. If he slides any further down in that chair he'll wind up on the floor but I don't think he cares. There's a red ribbon 'round the base of the new jug and he's unwinding it with clumsy fingers, waving it vaguely in Malcolm's direction. My room-mate's eyes cross, but he's gotten the message.

Whoa, boy! He's swaying before he's even upright and hell, Johnny moves faster drunk than sober, both big hands splaying themselves out on that lovely rounded ass. Sonofabitch! If his fingers aren't actually _massaging_ those gorgeous cheeks. Malcolm's alert enough to feel it; he glances over his shoulder, his hands gently cupping Hoshi's drooping head. 

Maybe he's not as far gone as I thought; he's still winding the ribbon dextrously through Hoshi's loose hair as he turns a sultry smile Johnny's way. "Thank you, Captain," he purrs, and damn if he's not looking right through me, pushing that cute tush back into Jon's hands. "I feel quite safe now. Trip sir, will you pass me that little brolly thingie please?"

The captain's grinning, shifting around so his hands keep moving, checking out every millimetre of Malcolm's sexy ass. Dammit Jon! That's _mine_!

Aw, hell!

My hand's shaking worse than his as I push a second useless piece of gaudy wet paper on a stick his way, and if he's seeing three of me, minimum, I'm having trouble seeing the single Malcolm Reed in the room clearly through the creepy red haze that's pushing in from the corners of my eyes.

_He's_ mine, whether he knows it or not. I can't stand seeing him flirt with anyone else, even if I'm kind of thinking for the first time that maybe he's not as straight as I always imagined. If he'd been flirting with Hoshi (before she passed out, obviously) it'd have got me maudlin and sorry for myself; but no, he's making eyes at Johnny Archer, and he sure as hell don't need a scanner to confirm _he's_ a guy. Maybe, just maybe...

"There! Got your camera, Commander sir?" He leans back against Jons hands but yeah, he's looking right at me, as straight and challenging as only a drunk can, and the corner of his mouth just turns up as I guide him back out of his temporary seat back to the low stool at my side. You know, it's almost like he can feel the heat rolling off of me; like there's steam coming out my ears and only he can see it. 

Jon's laughing now, waving a hand Hoshi's way, encouraging half the club to admire the pretty red bow with umbrellas Malcolm's dandled over her ear. "You've got good hands, Mister Reed," he mumbles, lunging over the table to grab at one of those mighty fine limbs. Dammit Malcolm, where's your sense of propriety now? Simpering for your captain in the middle of a seedy alien club, what would your daddy say?

What's the punishment for assaulting your commanding officer in a bar? I may be on the verge of finding out.

And it'll be worth it!

Jon's mouth is hanging open. I can't take this anymore.

"Cap'n you're gonna see your chief wife home, right?" I drawl, and Malcolm sniggers like a schoolboy with a porn magazine, withdrawing his hand from Jon's and dropping it - easy, boy - down into my lap. He's slipped against my side, his dark head falling onto my shoulder and hell, I hope he's not about to pass out like Hoshi: he'll be embarrassed enough in the morning, because I know he never blanks out completely. Not however much he's drunk.

"I'll be the perfect gennleman," my friend slurs. Funny how Malcolm's still so perfectly precise. I know he slurs too; heard him in the shuttlepod the day it tried to kill us. Maybe it's only bourbon makes him do that.

And Andorian Ale, but let's not go there. Stand up, unhook his jacket from the back of my chair (the perks of rank, Jon and I got the proper chairs.) and hold it out as he clambers upright, arms flailing. Aw, it's like dressing my nephew as I manipulate his arms into the right holes. Course, Jack was only two last time I saw him.

"Thank you, Commander." His eyes gleam silvery in the dark, and I can't be mad that he's using my rank to torment me: I'm just glad to have all his inebriated attention turned my way.

He doesn't seem to notice Jon patting his ass as we ease past into the undulating crowd filling the dance floor. But I do, and that unfamiliar urge to deck the boss sweeps up out of my toes again. Got to get out of here. Now.

"Bye, Travis!" he sings out, waving madly at our boomer. Not that Mayweather's looking our way; wedged between a couple of dark-haired local women, eyes closed and a look of transcendent bliss on his face (lucky bastard, my cock announces with a little twitch), he probably wouldn't notice the roof falling down on him. I give his arm a small tug and, obedient as Porthos, Malcolm tumbles along in my wake.

Outside, the streets are quiet: guess most people are either tucked in their beds or still partying, yet Malcolm still manages to bounce off one man and back against my hip, trilling an unapologetic "Sor-ee!" to one of us. Probably the alien, since he don't bounce away from me. 

Nope, he snuggles in with a gusty sigh. "Bloody cold," he announces, and that was almost a whine.

He's so sweet when he gets petulant.

And I am a hopeless case. I know.

Still, it seems okay to me and he snorts when I tell him so, nuzzling himself right up to my side. My arm wraps around his shoulders as we weave between another couple and a streetlight: least this way I can keep us moving in something like a straight line. "It's probably the booze talking," I suggest, sticking to the Tucker principle of saying it like we see it, even if it's the dumbest thing we can do. "Remember that lecture from Phlox about how alcohol lowers the blood temperature?"

Malcolm wiggles away. And stumbles off the sidewalk. "Are you implying I'm pissed, Commander Tripper?"

Even staggering and fouling up his words he's so beautifully serious, with all the offended dignity of the completely (in his phrase) _rat-arsed_. "I think I am, Lieutenant," I say, offering my hand to drag him out of the gutter. He chortles.

"Spoilsport !" he yells, falling right back into the crook of my arm. "At least I'll be sober in the morning."

Now I can see that's a trap, but I'm so besotted I just walk right into it. "Whatcha mean, Malcolm?"

He's peeking up at me from under lowered lashes, all smug and superior. "You'll still be jealous. Didn't like me flirting with ol' Johnny, did you?"

Uh-oh. Busted.

"Don't be stupid." Okay, I'm a lousy liar. I'm a Tucker, it goes with the territory. Malcolm sniffs, haughty as if he's Lieutenant Proper again: sober, in uniform and on duty.

"I only did it to pique your interest, you know," he announces, and is that his hand slipping inside my jacket and climbing up my back, tugging my shirt clean out of my waistband? Why in God's name did I wear _white silk_ tonight?

Yeah, right. In the vain hope of catching Malcolm's eye. Malcolm, who wrote to a hundred ex girlfriends at death's door. When he wasn't drooling over T'Pol's _bum_.

"And it worked." He does _smug bastard_ better than anyone else in the galaxy. I'm supposed to hate smug bastards, but it's kind of hard - bad choice of word - when he's moved that talented hand down to fondle my butt.

"You're crazy. And drunk."

"And you're getting boring. Never thought I'd say that to you." Eyes bright as the stars gleaming in a clear black sky twinkle up at me. One of those shiny dots up there might be Enterprise, hanging in orbit under T'Pol's command. If I hollered for an emergency beam-out, would she respond? Facing her goddamn condescending questions has got to be less embarrassing than sharing a bedroom (with one very large bed) with an inebriated and amorous Malcolm Reed.

I mean sure, it sounds like every wet dream made flesh, but in those, he's sober. Dammit, how did he get a finger up _that_ far?

Giving a little wriggle rescues my ass at the expense of Malcolm's dignity. He's pouting, that cute little furrow creasing up between his eyebrows. "You want me. _Caught y' lookin' C'mander_."

Now _that_ was slurry, exaggerating my drawl, but I'm too embarrassed to pull him up. Because I've been caught - metaphorically - with my pants down. Or my eyes out on stalks. Of course I've been looking. Name me anyone with eyes who wouldn't!

"A man's allowed to look now and again." That's the exact tone I've heard Momma use to Dad when he's been at the moonshine; never gets her anywhere either. "And take your hand off my dick!"

Ouch. That _may_ have been a little loud.

"It's alright," my companion calls gaily to the civil guard in his gold uniform patrolling the central plaza. "He likes it really."

Guess the happy bounce of my penis against his palm makes that difficult to deny. God knows, it's making it tough even to think. Our hotel's on the west side of the square and I angle us toward it on instinct, all my concentration required to stop my delighted cock pushing its way back into that capable hand. "Lieutenant Reed! Behave yourself!"

"Oh, very funny." The fresh air's got to him: he's enunciating less clearly now, and as we stagger into the brightly lit lobby he's definitely disorientated. That allows me a moment to back off; but not too far. He's leaning against me, batting those pretty long eyelashes, and I just know if I slide out of his grasp he's going to wind up in a giggly little puddle on the cold tiled floor. " _Call me Trip, Loo-tenant!_ "

This could not get more embarrassing. Unless Ambassador Soval and the whole Vulcan High Command happens to be staying at the swankiest hotel on Tessia Three.

The night porter, a great big woolly thing with a rhinoceros's tusk above a shark's set of teeth, shuffles out from the office to greet us. "'salright, we don't need anything thanks," my companion informs him, beaming. "We're going to bed now. Night-night!"

I bundle us both to the elevator before he can humiliate either of us any further. Our suite's right opposite on the third floor, and I'm suddenly grateful these buildings are shaped like Malcolm himself: slender, graceful and not very tall. I'm bigger than him and he's in no condition to make a fight of it, but manhandling him up the Empire State would not be funny right now.

Especially since I need both hands to fend off his!

"Malcolm, listen to me." His mouth latches onto the side of my neck, and oh shit, that feels wonderful. He's gone straight for one of my hottest spots: now he's nibbling, huffing little sounds of pleasure against my skin, and if I don't stop this right now, I never will.

Pushing him away's the toughest thing I've ever done; and it gets worse when I see the hurt flash over his face and realise I've caused it. "You're right, Malcolm," I say, proud of how calm I sound while my guts are churning and the few brain cells I've got left are popping like that exploding candy Lizzie loves. "God knows I want you, but not like this. You don't know what you're saying."

"Just because I've never had the guts to say it before." Arms folded, head cocked, he stares me down and I'm blushing, looking away, because I want so badly to believe him; want him to want this - _us_ \- the way I do, and I can't. Not like this. Not with him slithering against the wall, too drunk to stay upright and starting, at last, to extend every damn syllable longer than Grandpa Johnson did with his face in a whole barrel of his own moonshine. "'m a coward, but I want you. Might even love you, ac'shlly."

Time freezes. His forehead creases. "Boggery bullocks - no - buggery bollocks. I _am_ tiddly, aren't I?"

"Yeah." And the fancy carved ceiling's just crashed in on my head. Saying that word's cooled him off faster than a tray of ice cubes down the pants. He totters to the bed and just... lets himself fall.

"Must be," he grouses, and my poor dick bounces again at the sight of him squirming, hips rising and falling as he burrows down into that soft mattress. "Never get soppy when I'm sober. 's all true though."

There's a jug of sparkling water on the bedside chest: pouring myself a glass buys some thinking time. The husky thread of his voice is hypnotic. I want to stick my fingers in my ears to block it, but I can't. 

"Are you going to play scared now, Charles Tucker?" I can't look at him, so instead I go to the window and pull the drape aside. It's tranquil out there; a few couples strolling around the square, low lights glinting from long, slim windows in the elegant buildings around us. "I've seen you boggling - no, _ogling_ my arse, but I'm subtle, see. You never saw me watching yours, eh? Lovely arse it is, much nicer than T'Pol's, or the captain's. Mmmm, I dream of getting my hands on your bum at the worst times - 'specially when you're leaning over woggli - waggling it in front of me. Such a lovely, sexy little bum...mmmmm."

I daren't look around until the sigh mutates into a snore, followed by another. Even then I keep it slow and steady as I turn, drawn by a tractor beam to gaze at him.

Beautiful.

His mouth's half open, pink lips puckered into a sexy little smirk even with him passed out cold. One arm hangs over the edge of the bed, and I'd better focus on that one, 'cause the other hand's cupped at his groin, cradling that lovely weight, and just looking at it makes my fingers burn with envy. 

Oh, shit. Do I have to undress him?

His cock's flaccid: mine's as much awake as my hyperactive mind, which is spinning with images of my shaking hands lifting that tight-fitting top, fingertips brushing down beneath the waistband of those insanely snug pants. The air's gotten thick. My mouth's dry as that damn desert I almost died in.

I can't do it.

I settle for tugging off his smart black brogues and tossing a blanket over him. The bed's enormous, so I fetch another, strip down to my blues and wrap it around me, stretching out as far away from temptation as I can manage. This is going to be one helluva long night.


	2. In The Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have some serious talking - and possibly some other things - to do.

Luck’s on my side; the breakfast bar is empty, and the waitress ignores the amount I’m piling onto a platter. Somebody, somewhere, is looking out for us, because if Jon saw me sneaking about like this, I’d never live it down.

The door hisses open for me, and immediately I’ve noticed something important. The bed’s empty.

“Malcolm?” If he’s throwing up, I hope he made it to the proper receptacle, ‘cause I’m not mopping the floor for anybody.

“Shut the fucking curtains, will you; the sun’s too bloody bright.”

Yes, he sounds rough. Sober, but rough. I’ve been in that state often enough to be sympathetic, so with the touch of a button I’ve drawn the drapes across the panoramic windows, swathing the room in tranquil shadows. “You can come out now.”

Hey, a grunt’s more encouraging than another obscenity! I’ve just got time to set down the tray before he shuffles out of the bathroom. Oh, my.

He’s peeled off his t-shirt, exposing his gorgeous torso and spiking up his sleep-roughed hair. Swallow hard, Trip. And breathe. You know how to do that, you've been doing it more than thirty years without giving it a thought. 

I’ve seen it all before: the fine dust of dark hairs that narrow into a line below the sweet indent of his belly button; the dusky pink of his nipples, standing out nice and clear against his milky skin. I’ve admired those sculpted pecs and that taut abdomen in the soft blue light of decon, with Phlox’s sensuous gel glistening over the flawless skin. 

And yes, it gets me every time. Teamed with the sleep-mussed hair and the heavy eyes...

Oh. Heavy, _bloodshot_ eyes. Now he’s that bit closer I can make out the waxy caste to the skin pulled taut over straight nose and fine cheekbones. See the rheumy discolouration of the eyeballs and the nasty little lines of pain that wrinkle his forehead. “Not feelin’g so good this morning?”

“Smart alecs not welcome,” he growls, and as his eye falls on the food I can hear his stomach do the same in protest. “I hope that’s all for you.”

I’ve chosen the lighter options: cereals; some dainty, fancy breads with sticky pastes that might be jam; fruit juice and water instead of anything caffeinated, but he’s heaving at the sight of it. Easing him down to sit on the edge of the bed, I dig into my backpack while he holds his aching head and moans. Splash some water into a glass and hand it to him together with two small orange pills. “These might help.”

He blinks. “Oh. I was hoping you might be giving me the registry number of the starship that hit me rather than a hangover cure, but anyway – thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

 _Ouch._ The worst I’ve ever had was shuttlepod syndrome; he’s got the whole starship? Maybe I should double the dose.

His throat convulses as he swallows the tablets down, then lets his head drop again. Is that my hand stroking his hair? That’s brave.

It’s so soft: the opposite of what you’d expect, seeing it so groomed and smart on duty. A bit like Malcolm himself, hiding all that warmth and wickedness beneath the bland façade of the perfect officer. Everyone thinks he’s such an anal snot, but he’s just – not.

He’s mischievous. Mercurial. And he’s letting me run my fingers through his hair without attempting homicide. In fact, he’s tilting his head into my hand, silently asking for more.

I feel his withdrawal before I hear it in his embarrassed little cough. There’s something about the way the air chills around us as he tightens up, but he doesn’t move away, keeping his head down. “I ought to apologise,” he says in his best _situation room_ voice. “My behaviour last night was completely unacceptable.”

“Malcolm, you were drunk on leave. We’ve all done it.” It’s probably a hanging offence in the Reed household. From what I’ve heard, having fun’s against the rules there.

“I flirted with the bloody captain.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” My head drops with my guts, and that allows me to see the colour staining his cheeks. “Y’ know, I think Jon enjoyed getting his hands all over your ass, but it’s okay. Travis had disappeared, and Hoshi was passed out in the corner. He was probably drunker than you, and you were _really_ drunk.”

“I remember you telling me.” His head lifts and damn if his mood ain’t changed again. His eyes are narrowed and crinkle at the corners. His skin’s a better colour, too. “But I was right. You _were_ jealous.”

“Damn right.” If it makes him feel better, I’m not going to deny it. 

Funnily enough, I’m not sure it does. He shifts away from me, head still hanging, but I can see he’s nibbling his luscious bottom lip. Heat swells in my belly as images of kissing the marks away flash through my brain.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he mutters, forcing himself to look me in the eye. God I hate it when he gets all withdrawn and tentative, like he doesn’t know what to say to me. It’s not natural.

So I make a joke of it; fling up my hands and plaster on my best dumb hick expression. “You’re jus’ lucky ah’m a gentleman after all, Mister Reed. The cap'n may not believe it, but mah folks raised me not t’ take advantage of a guy in that condition.”

When T’Pol’s eyebrow climbs like that it never flips my heart over. “Okay, so maybe they were thinkin’ more of girls, but it’s the same thing, yeah?”

“I’m not sure my parents would think so, but yours are probably more broad-minded.” Mischief brings out blue highlights in those fascinating, ever-changing eyes and yes, I know I’m staring. “I’m fairly sure I’m sober now.”

“You sound it.” The fine hairs at the back of my neck are prickling; and they’re not all that’s going to be standing at attention if he keeps peeking up at me and wetting his lips, playing all shy when I just know he’s taunting me.

“So you don’t have to worry about my virtue.”

My mouth’s dried out again. And who sucked all the air out of the room?

If that was a trap, it’s the sweetest ever laid. “Malcolm I’m flattered but you’re not – I mean, you’ve never... dammit, you’re straight!”

“Most of the time.” He’s so casual, like it means nothing at all. Then he grins, and I fall in love all over again. “I’m also extremely discreet. And you’re a clot. Which means I’ve been able to ogle my fill without you suspecting a thing, Mistah Tuckah.”

Okay, I should be insulted. I’ve just been told I’m an insensitive jerk whose pretty blue eyes are for decoration only. Instead, I’m plain bewildered. And – if I squint hard enough – possibly a little bedazzled, too.

With Malcolm though, it’s best to make sure things aren’t being misinterpreted. “You – you like me?”

That came out as shy as a teenager on his first date with a real live – well, whatever. The bashful grin that flicks over Malcolm’s gorgeous lips is no better. “Quite a lot, actually. I just had to be plastered before I could tell you.”

“Oh, wow.”

I know I sound pathetic, but maybe that’s not so bad. Malcolm’s visibly fighting off a gut-buster laugh, his eyes all bright, hangover forgotten. I’ve never seen such joy on his face, and I’m the one who put it there. 

I’d ask him to pinch me but he’s the most dangerous man in Starfleet. He’d probably break my arm. 

“So,” he says softly, and there’s oh, so much hope in that little word. “What happens next?”

Time slows down as I lean toward him. He exhales, a little shakily, the warm breath fanning out over my parted lips. He knows I’m about to kiss him. I know he’ll let me, and it flips my stomach like a dip to zero-G.

It’s awkward at first; our noses bump, and we both jerk back, startled and a tad sheepish. The tip of his tongue slips out; it’s as much an invitation as if he’d painted a sign on the side of the hull. I dive in, and this time, we meet in the middle just fine.

He tastes – fresh. Mint slices through the rich, dark, inviting taste that’s all Malcolm. _My_ Malcolm. It’s only our first kiss – a probing, testing, oh-so-tantalising first kiss and already I’m losing myself in him. And I don’t care.

“That was nice.” He sounds breathless, but he’s coherent: it can’t have affected him the same whole-hog way. He licks his lips and while I’m distracted by that adorable tongue he swings his legs around so he’s straddling me, one hand cupping my head, the other sliding nice and easy down my spine. Oh yeah, that feels more than just _nice_ , his bare chest rubbing up against my shirt front, his mouth bare millimetres from mine. And yes, there it is – the hard, heavy pressure of his dick, swelling up as much as it dares in those constricting pants. Better get him out of them before any damage is done to something real important.

Oh, right. Seems I’m not the only one with clothing on my mind. Malcolm’s tugging my shirt, tutting softly. “The one you had on last night was so much nicer,” he whines, and did I mention I’ve always admired those nimble fingers of his? “Lime green and cerise are _not_ your colours.”

The last button slips open and he can’t wait to push the shirt off my shoulders before leaning in to rub himself up against me, the small nubs of his nipples scratching through my chest hair. When he starts up another, more aggressive kiss, I’m ready: my arms wrap around him and we’re off, rubbing and pressing in all the right places. Damn, I didn’t brush my teeth before running to fetch him some breakfast.

“You taste lovely,” he promises, a tad less precise than before, and kind of husky. I like it. “And your mouth probably didn’t feel like one of Phlox’s Petri dishes when you woke up!”

Ugh. There’s nothing worse than furry teeth and a swollen tongue the morning after a drunken night before. No wonder he tastes of peppermint toothpaste. Or is it spearmint?

I have to kiss him again, just to be sure.

Um, what was it I was checking again?

My shirt’s disappeared and he’s attacking my fly with the same ferocity he’s exploring my dental health: our teeth scrape and his tongue’s almost tickling my tonsils as he bruises my lips with the force of his kiss. I’m running out of air, but it doesn’t matter, his urgency’s contagious and I’m kissing just as hard, branding the taste of him into my DNA while he squirms and sighs, shifting ‘til his erection can connect through two layers of tight denim with mine. Sonofabitch!

It feels so good I might just come on the spot. And these jeans have got to go.

That means getting off the bed. Worse, it means pushing Malcolm’s dick away from mine. 

It hurts, but man, was it worth the pain! He has to peel off those ridiculous pants and – oh yeah, I just knew there wasn’t so much as a g-string underneath! Proudly nude, he challenges me with those amazing, stormy eyes, and I know when I’m beat. I surrender, throwing my pants away with the boxers still tucked inside. C’mon Malcolm, _move!_

He’s on me so fast I didn’t even see it, pushing me back onto the edge of the bed and straddling me, one hand in my hair, the other making the formal introductions further south. The head of his cock nestles into mine, his long fingers coming in real useful, manipulating us together. He’s hot and pulsing against me and his mouth’s back on mine, his chest crushing into me, and it’s all so fast I’m giddy.

“Malcolm.” There’s something I have to say, something important, and the way he’s working us, shooting hot arrows of pleasure through every contact point is making it kind of hard to remember what it is. I drag my mouth free, blinking his tight, fierce expression into focus and feeling myself shudder in reaction. He looks wild – desperate. 

He looks like sex personified.

Swallowing hard, I croak out the thing he needs to know. “You’re not a quick fuck to me, Malcolm.”

The craziness fades with the soft smile that graces those perfectly-carved features. “I don’t go in for shore leave flings, Mistah Tuckah,” he pledges, releasing my hair to bestow a slow, almost soothing caress down my nape. “Especially not with shipmates! I want....”

Figure I know before he tells me, because his body’s shifting, his dick making magic against mine, and his head lolls into my palm, soft, broken murmurs bleeding through his tight little concentrated pout. So I start telling him what I want – all of it, what I’ve wanted for a lifetime.

“I want you in me; on me.” Just saying it gives me the shakes, because now I know it’s going to happen someday soon. “I want to feel you under me; all around me. I want everything, Malcolm. You up for that?”

“Oh, yes!” He’s trembling like a frightened bird in my arms, fighting for breath, and through the haze that he’s wrapping around me I’ve got to wonder; how long’s it been for him? 

I’ve gotten by with the odd inter-planetary first contact, but he... oh God, he’s found my hot spot!

One fingertip digs in just below the head, and my whole body reacts. I’ve got to kiss him, need to imprint his taste on my tongue, and he’s matching me, writhing, bucking, wordless pleas for more tingling through my swollen lips. His hips grind: he’s right where I need him now, all heat and pressure and pleasure, sweat and pre-come slicking the hand that works us and it’s so good, too damn good, balls are so tight, I want to come with him as he jerks, his hot seed spurting between us, his voice raw and harsh as he howls my name. 

My whole body tightens. For an instant I’ m just hovering, right there on the edge, aware of everything, his heat, the transcendent beauty of his face at orgasm, the sun streaming in that gilds us and the liquid sensation that surges out through my dick and all over my body. I can’t do anything; just hang on and let the wave carry me, higher and harder, until the universe explodes around me, and there’s nothing but Malcolm and me, and the heat and light and.... eternity.

*

We’re melting.

Somehow I’ve wound up flat on my back, sinking down into the mattress with Malcolm sprawled out on top of me, the stickiness of our mingled come oozing between our trunks until it seems his flesh is dissolving into mine. Suits me just fine.

There might not be a bone left in my arms, but they’re still wrapped around him, his damp flesh ticklish against the skin when he moves, almost purring as he nuzzles my throat. “Malcolm?”

“Hmmm?” 

“All those things I said.” I wait ‘til he lifts his head, dazed grey eyes caressing over my relaxed face. “I meant them. I – I love you.”

He doesn’t have to say it. The happiness that washes over his face, so expressive once those barriers fall down, screams it. “Right back at y’, darlin’,” he manages hoarsely, and if he doesn’t want me to notice his fingers trembling as they brush my cheek, I won’t. “I never thought you could feel the same.”

“Likewise.” I’m grinning like the galaxy’s biggest fool, and I don’t care. He leans forward, offering me his lovely lips, and hell - who am I to turn down a gift like that?

Something’s bothering him. There’s a wariness at the back of those changeable eyes, building like a distant storm. His tongue flickers out; he takes a shaky breath.

“Whatever it is darlin’, tell me.”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Don’t take this the wrong way love, but can we keep this to ourselves for a while?”

The words come out in a rush but I’m not offended. Maybe if I was surprised I would be but hell: I don’t want the universe peeping over its newspapers at us tomorrow morning either. This is too new – too precious – to be kicked around the lower decks, just another item of ship’s scuttlebutt.

“Sure thing, Mal.” The nickname serves its purpose: he rolls his eyes in mock disdain, the unease fading to leave his eyes bright and shiny. “Long as you don’t expect me t’ ignore you off duty.”

“I doubt anyone will turn a hair if we sit together for movie night.” We’ve been doing that for over a year – since that damn shuttlepod tried to kill us. “And we do seem to have at least one meal a day together.”

“We hang out most evenings we’re not working.” Look at it sideways and we’ve been dating for months. I’m not sure whether to be touched or mortified.

“And who’s going to notice what time we say goodnight?” He finishes up on a self-conscious kind of giggle. “I’m not ashamed of my feelings, Trip. Please don’t doubt that.”

It never occurred to me he might be. “You’re a private kind of guy, Mal.” I like the diminutive, and since I’m still snuggled under him he can’t hate it that much. “I’d stand on the reactor and shout through an open comm...”

“You would, too.”

“Never unless you’re happy for it.” With a twitch of the hip he’s rolled off to my side, and I follow, framing that beautiful face in my hands. “And whatever the cap'n says I _do_ know what discretion means. Until you’re ready, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

Damn that eyebrow! It’s got a magnetic pull on my dick, which rises in unison. “Only in public I hope,” he growls.

Oh, my. That went right from ear to balls. His voice is a turn-on when he’s being all proper and poker-faced on the bridge, but right now it could make me come without a single touch.

“Only in public.” That means I can get them all over him now, right?

As his get busy on me, I’ll take that as a yes. “The Captain was drunker than me, yes?” he murmurs between sweet, slow kisses.

“Much drunker.” Why is he talking about Jon?

Jealousy surges, but he smiles as he claims my mouth again. “Then we’ve time for a shower before he starts harassing us.”

A shower. He leaves me so dazed it takes me a minute to figure what he’s implying, freeing him to head into the bathroom with a sultry smile over the shoulder to me.

Every centimetre of my skin comes alive. My first shower with Malcolm. 

I can’t help but laugh out loud as I kick off the sheets and trot toward the sound of running water. I can savour it. Because I know it’s going to be the first of very many.


End file.
